Verse-gracer! deign to grace mine That shall breathe a scent of jasmine, Then, thou fair-fashioned letter, Fly far, and find my dear; A bliss I have not tasted Ah! guide her sweet thoughts thither, In thought, to tryst with her, Bright bluebells fill the hollow, Never was mead more yellow With May-bred buttercup Than is one mossy level, Deep-hid in the green gloom, With the sweetest growth of April, The cowslip's golden plume. There, where the boughs drooped round her To touch her shoulders fine, O remind her how I found her And took her hands in mine, And told her how I loved her, And chased her frowns away, And took her kiss-closed promise Upon Death's lonely shore- In primrose-paven places The pleasant blackbird calls, Along the verdured passes, Through flower-crowded knolls; And the soft tide of glad branches Sweet-ripples overhead, Where we twain have walked with fancies Too joyful to be said. Ah! there my spirit lingers To taste the springtime's charm, To draw her slender fingers Yea, letter, thou shalt deem her, As I do-blossom-sweet. Yet, O, pray her remember My love, until we meet Lest she should hate thee, letter, Or time have changed her mind, Nay, nay! she loves me truly, And press it to her heart, Yea, letter, on thy cover My love shall kiss her name, And, thinking of her lover, Shall flush with joyful shame ; And so my lips shall greet her, Yea, all this while I miss her, And clasp her shape again. And kiss her, day by day; And she will repeat you over When I am far away. [By kind permission of the author.] W. WILKINS. WEDDING BELLS. Wandering away on tired feet, Away from the close and crowded street, With joyous light, In shame cast down 'Neath the scorn and frown Of those who had known her in days that were flown. The once light heart-the abode of fears, As she fled from the city's smoke and din, And a heart-sick cry "Oh, to wander away and die! God, let me die on my mother's grave, With a weary moan, From the dusty street; And they turned to gaze on the fair young face, Forth from the west the red light glowed, Where the country lanes were fresh and green. The red light gleamed on the village tower, Was, "Oh, to die! God, let me die on my mother's grave, Merrily echoed the old church bells, But they woke her not, she slumbered on, In the gladsome light, And the village maidens were clad in white, They merrily hied, In gay procession to meet the bride; A joyful chime of the bells again, To proclaim the return of the bridal train; A louder peal from the old church tower (As the bride passes on through the floral bower, With the bridegroom, happy, tender, and gay), And the echoes are carried away, away; But they linger awhile o'er the tombstones grey; |